


Grounded

by Hedgiehairdresser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fatherhood, Kid Fic, M/M, Parenthood, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgiehairdresser/pseuds/Hedgiehairdresser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years ago, John and Sherlock took guardianship of Mycroft's son. Now, coming up to Christmastime and Mycroft offered to baby-sit the Holmes boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Just a nice family fic inspired by my own family and the struggles with raising children in a same-sex marriage. (My own father and his boyfriend had one Hell of a time raising all four of us kids, even in Canada.) This is a lot more lighthearted though, dealing with the family aspect rather than the drama and struggle of control that the government and schools think they have.  
> It should be noted that the name 'Ryder' came out of thin air. Any resemblance to an actual person is unintended and completely random.

**Grounded**

**  
**

"Ryder, go to bed now! You'll never be able to get up for school in the morning if you don't sleep." John yelled at his son, pointing his finger in the direction of the stairs. Sherlock sat on the couch in his dressing robe, smirking sardonically at his boyfriend trying to discipline a Holmes child. Ryder, being only six, didn't understand much, but enough to know that there were certain limits to how much his dads tempers could be pushed. Trudging up the stairs in his footsie pyjama’s, Ryder drooped his head full of hair curls and retreated to his bedroom.  
From the other corner of the living room, Sherlock smirked.  
"You know raising a child of Holmes blood would be difficult. Especially once he started school." His deep voice laced with amusement echoed within the quiet walls of the flat. John was exhausted, he collapsed on the sofa beside his boyfriend, wiping a hand across his tired brow.

"It's been six years, if anything I figured he would wait until he was a teenager to get an attitude. He wasn't that bad until you decided to teach him to talk." John was right, for the most part during the infant years, Ryder was quiet, he didn't get colic that most babies get. He wasn't very destructive either, until his late toddler years when he needed to be taught to talk, walk, eat and, the worst of them all, potty train. Ever since then it was a miasma of trouble and chaos wherever they went.

"I had to teach him to talk, otherwise where would he learn it?" Sherlock smiled, Ryder may not be his biological son, but he was a Holmes, and biologically his nephew, and by God, he was going to raise him to be a Holmes. John, on the other hand, would have preferred a Holmes child raised to be a Watson. Friendly, nonchalant, curious but not overly enticed by shiny objects. John knew that by leaving Sherlock to teach their son to talk, he would learn all the elements of chemistry before he knew how to say his own name. Oh well, he figured, at least their son would be intelligent.

"Mycroft wants to visit again this weekend." Sherlock announced, leading the topic away from parenting skills and duties. John's attention perked up once Sherlock spoke the name of his brother-and the father of their son.  
"Oh yeah? What does he want?" John asked, slightly agitated. When Mycroft came to visit it was only to spoil Ryder rotten and send him back home for his parents to deal with the hyperactive child strung out on sugar and other sweets. He understood that he wanted to see his son, and in his government position and single marital status; it was impossible to raise a child in secret. That's why he signed over custody to his brother and brother's partner. However, he knew once he did, he would assume role as 'uncle; as it stood, he seemed more like elderly grandmother. When Ryder went to visit 'Uncle' Mycroft, it was a weekend of sickly sweet candy, television all night, no curfew and more toys and gadgets then the child knew what to do with.

"It's the weekend before Christmas, and Mycroft wants to take Ryder to see Mummy and have Christmas dinner with that side of the family. I agreed, since we get Ryder for Christmas day anyway." Sherlock stroked John's sandy hair with the tips of his callous fingers, feeling his lover and, as John affectionately called him, 'co-parent', squirm to get comfortable under the touch. The older man looked up at the consulting detective, his brow slightly furrowed towards him.

"You know how I feel about Ryder spending a whole weekend with your brother." John grabbed Sherlock's other hand, kissing his knuckles softly. Sherlock let go a low sound from his throat.  
"We should wait until we get back to the room, Ryder could still come down at any time, you don't want to explain to him what we're doing." Sherlock pulled John up into a sitting position onto his lap, giving his partner Eskimo kisses. John chuckled, he was right, last year Ryder had caught them kissing in the kitchen and they had to start giving him the 'what grown-ups do' talk. They were procrastinating about the birds and the bees until he figured out that the word 'sex' existed. A Holmes child knowing what that meant was deadly, there was no telling what he could do with that information, or who he would tell. The thought of their son bringing up sex at the Christmas dinner table in front of Mummy Holmes made John smirk, he knew their son was not the most polite child.

"I understand that you're uncomfortable, but I couldn't say no to Mycroft, John. He was gracious enough to let Ryder stay with us." Sherlock continued, subtlety trying to get John to get up and into their bedroom, Ryder was not known to stay in his room even at bedtime.  
"I'm going to stop you right there, Sherlock, we willingly took in Ryder to keep him in the family, don't even start that. I'll let him spend time with your mother and his father, that's not an issue...I just wish he wouldn't feed him so much cake." John put his finger over the detective's lips, silencing him in a heartbeat. He felt Sherlock's lips curl into a smile underneath the stout appendage that rested over top of them. Sherlock was well aware John had no issue raising the child, it had been more then a roller coaster; more like a haunted house-backwards roller coaster-on high speed setting-with a full stomach, nor did he have any issue playing role of father, not not daring to tell their son his real parentage; but it was just so. Much. Sugar.

"It means we have the entire weekend to ourselves. We should go away for it. I hear Llangollen is nice this time of year." Sherlock muttered into John's hand, wrapping his hands around John, pulling him closer.  
"North Wales is nice all times of the year. We'd only have three days at most, unless we let Mycroft take him for the week." John stood up, still in Sherlock's embrace, as he walked backwards, guiding the two of them towards the stairs to their bedroom. Sherlock nodded a muted yes, humming contently.  
"If that's the case, we'll have absolutely no problem getting Mycroft to give us a car at his disposal, or a hotel reservation. I would love to be home for Christmas with our son though. It's the only time of year when he's forced to be pleasant and I don't want my brother getting all the good cheer." Sherlock nuzzled closer to John, his sibling rivalry showing through. John rolled his eyes, of course Sherlock would have some ulterior motives to going on vacation.

They reached the top of the stairs without difficulty, then they disentangled to open the door to their room, both grew very quiet, listening for any signal that Ryder would still be awake. Slowly entering the room, John thought of how they'd survive Christmas with their son newly arrived home with sugar for blood.

* * *

"Ryder, are you all packed? Uncle Mycroft will be here in ten minutes to pick you up!" John called up to his son, dragging his own suitcase to the front door along with the hotel passes and basic identification tags for his and Sherlock's luggage. They had five days to themselves. It was Friday evening, Ryder had just gotten home for winter break, and Mycroft was coming to pick him up for their own mini-vacation to the northern part of Wales. Christmas day was next Thursday, so they would be home just in time to have a small, modest family Christmas with no interruptions. Sherlock followed behind him, taking along his own case, they were relatively small suitcases, carrying nothing except essentials. John had insisted on only bringing a mobile phone for emergency use only. No texting, no calls to Lestrade, no blogging, no Internet access. Just the two of them, but they had to maintain some electronic communication just in case, God forbid, anything happen to their son whilst they were away.

"You gave Mycroft the list, right?" Sherlock asked, looking back up the stairs to see if Ryder was following them or just wasting time in his room.  
"Yes, I did. I even gave him measurements for the sugar intake. Not that he'll listen at all. Hush though, five days of no parenting, five days of being alone. It's not like Mycroft will maim him or anything." John scoffed, getting rather giddy at the thought of not having to wake up in the middle of the night to deal with night terrors, or glasses of water, or monsters under the bed. Even Holmes children believe in monsters in dark corners.

It was that moment they heard the knocking on the door, three short pounds on the wooden entrance, they both knew that to be Mycroft's signature knocking pattern. John opened the door wide, a smile spread over his face, as he shook his hand.  
"Mycroft! Hello, how are you doing?" John greeted him politely, welcoming him inside their home. Mycroft stepped inside gingerly, stepping over top the suitcases in the foyer. He regarded Sherlock and John respectively, but looked over their shoulders towards the stairwell, asking the silent question.

"He'll be down in a moment, it takes him forever to get ready. I don't suppose you know where he inherited that trait?" John coughed, turning towards their flat door, calling up to his son.  
"RYDER, HURRY UP! Uncle Mycroft is here! We have to get going!" He yelled, shaking his head.

"No, it's from his mother. The McHanns were never known for their speed." Mycroft said in a soft voice, his stoic pose faulting slightly at the mention of his deceased girlfriend's surname. John heard this, and if Sherlock had heard the wavering tone, he ignored it, still forever callous towards his relatives.  
"I'm...sorry, Mycroft. She would have been a wonderful mother." John tried to be sympathetic, and for what he could tell, it worked to an extent, as the older man straightened up, adjusting his tie.  
"All the same, John. Rita is...gone, and Ryder has two wonderful parents able to care for him. I'm content being able to spend time with him at all, God knows I would be able to fit a child into my schedule. And the scandal would have gotten me fired for sure. I only wish to see him growing up in a Holmes household, even if it does belong to my little brother." Mycroft patted his brother on the shoulder, softened by emotion. John's heart seized slightly, he had seen the two brothers civil before; when Rita had died, for example, Sherlock had displayed a rare moment of tenderness and embraced his older brother in comfort. However, on a normal basis, Sherlock was stubborn and Mycroft was condescending. It made John grateful for the moments of normalcy they got every once in a while.

"Uncle Mycroft!" Ryder leaped down the stairs, suitcase banging harshly against the stairs, jumping down the last couple stairs, throwing himself into Mycroft's arms.  
"Hello Ryder. I've missed you so much." The government worker grinned, lifting his biological son off the ground, keeping him close to his chest.  
"You've grown so much since I last saw you." He remarked, putting the child down, looking him over.  
"You look just like Sherlock." He finished, looking up at Sherlock, raising a brow. John heard the silent 'thank goodness' that all three adults seemed to be projecting. It made it easier to explain when the kid actually looked like Sherlock.

"Shall we help your fathers load up their suitcases and we can get you over to my house?" Mycroft took Ryder's hand in his own, picking up his suitcase for him and leading him out the front door, not waiting up for Sherlock and John, who grabbed their own cases and went to load them up in the boot of Mycroft's car.  
"You're going to drop us off at the coach station, right Mycroft?" John asked to confirm, opening the door for himself and getting into the all too familiar car.  
"Yes John, you're coach doesn't leave until half six, so we have a bit of time to wait." Mycroft buckled Ryder into his seat, before sliding into the driver's side, turning on the car ignition. John relaxed almost instantly. The world was in their favour at this moment. The brothers were civil, their son was happy and compliant, and he was going to have his boyfriend all to himself for five whole days. And it was Christmastime, no one was ever miserable around Christmas.

* * *

"Say goodbye to your fathers, Ryder." Mycroft instructed, waiting on the platform with his brother and his partner, standing beside his son, who was busy looking at his feet.  
"Bye dad." The child with unruly curls hugged Sherlock tightly, he might be a Holmes; unattached by nature, but he was still a child, craving affection and acknowledgement by his parents. Sherlock, for all the things he never understood, knew this, and put a loving hand on his son's back. Technically they were still biologically related, and that attracted Sherlock to the boy. The fact that his flesh and blood was packed into a miniature, impressionable version of himself felt as if they were two magnets, drawn to each other through magnetic polarity. He never wanted to let go.

"Say goodbye to your other dad too, Ryder, don't be rude." Mycroft interrupted, seeing the obvious connection the two ebony haired Holmes' had. He knew he could never replace their bond, even if he was Ryder's actual father. Ryder was Sherlock's son, there was no doubt about the passing of gene's there. Ryder looked away from Sherlock and turned to John. Mycroft knew there was no resemblance between them at all. Ryder was, after all, half Holmes half McHann, but he got the brunt end of the Holmes stick. The Watson's weren't even involved. But there was something. Whether it was merely because John had raised him as his son, and Ryder grew up with John as a father, he didn't know. But there was definitely another unique, unbreakable connection between them. He watched as the miniature version of Sherlock hugged the Ex Army doctor tightly, his little hands wrapping around and digging into the cream coloured jumper John always wore. Mycroft was certain, at that moment, six long years after he had given up custody to the two dysfunctional crime stoppers, that he had made the right choice. Ryder belonged here.

"All right, you two have a good trip, I'll have a car send for you once you return, once you get to my house you can have your son back. I'll stop by on Christmas day too if I can." He tore himself away from the picture perfect family portrait and back to reality. Taking a hold of Ryder's hand, they walked back to the car, ready for their mini vacation. Of course Mycroft had some work to do, but nothing he couldn't do at night when Ryder was asleep, from the comfort of his laptop. The country wouldn't collapse because he didn't show up, all the important work was easily accessible from his electronic devices.

"Be good for your uncle, Ryder! See you soon, we won't be long, we promise!" John called out, blowing a small kiss to his son, waving as Sherlock turned back to stand closer to the platform edge to wait for their coach. They had opted out of taking the train, seeing as it was slower then a tourist line bus. Ryder waved back at his parents through the tinted car windows, hoping they could see him. He knew he would miss his dads, but he was giddy with joy; Mycroft was his favourite relative, and he knew how much his uncle spoiled him rotten. This was going to be the best vacation ever.

"I do hope he behaves for your brother. He takes after you, you know." John sighed, standing beside his lover, entwining their hands in the concealed fold of his extra long coat sleeves. Sherlock did not flinch at the touch, instead he relaxed into the familiar feeling of John's short hands grasping at his own rather spindly appendages. Sherlock looked up at the sky; grey and cloudless, not allowing the sun to peek through. It was all so very England, he felt at home seeing the grey skies. When Ryder was younger they had holidayed to the west coast of Canada to see the Rocky Mountains and the infamous 'Canadian Desert', and surprisingly to Sherlock, who knew everything, it was as dull and grey, if not even more so, than their London home. It certainly was far wetter then London, that was certain, but he had felt at home there. It looked like England, it smelled like England, it felt homey. He had never experienced that anywhere else in the world they had travelled.

The feeling of nostalgia passed as quickly as it came, he shifted his gaze over to John's face, affixing itself to his features. His face was not as slender and clever as the detectives, but it had an intelligence far above any civilian he had ever encountered. It was possibly a bias due to his overwhelming affection for the soldier, but based on the detective's intelligence; he doubted it.  
"He may look like me, but he acts more like you. You're the one who influences him most, you know." Sherlock said, assuring John that no matter the parentage, the mother figure always has more influence on a child. In their rare case, John was, without a doubt, the mother figure. Sherlock never used low labels to describe same sex partners, such as 'the woman of the relationship', but when it came to parents, there was definitely two sides, that case could not be disputed. John was calmer then Sherlock, John made the lunches and packed the school bags, and was the one to read bedtime stories, dealt with night terrors, sang the lullabies, everything a typical mother would do. As a baby, John had been the one to wake up and feed him most times in the middle of the night, John had changed the diapers, done the basic caring for him. Sherlock, like every father figure, was the one to sneak him out and do everything John said not to do. Although he didn't get the chance to do that too often -Mycroft had pretty much assumed that role.

"Tell that to the teachers next time they send home notes that 'Ryder made a potato battery in class and destroyed the projector screen'. Trust me, Sherlock, he acts just like you. Although he is perfectly content sitting around reading a book, he doesn't have to move around all the time." John, for one, was grateful for that. Ryder was only six though, he had plenty of time to make up for lost experiments and devastation of their apartment.  
"He's the silently destructive type. That's my boy." Sherlock smiled. They hadn't had too much trouble with their son, of course there were tantrums, but nothing every parents doesn't already go through. Sherlock heaved a sigh, knowing what both he and Mycroft were like as teenagers; he knew John would have to prepare himself for the worst. It definitely wasn't going to be easy.

They stood together until their coach arrived. When it did, they loaded up their suitcases and filed into the large bus. Sitting behind some American tourists; Sherlock did some slight deductions of their character until he felt John's head resting upon his shoulder, then he sat in silence, his brain buzzing, but at a low speed. Only 4 hours until they reached Llangollen.

* * *

"What would you like to do first, Ryder?" Mycroft asked the ebony haired child sitting beside him in the passenger seat. He knew it was against the law for young children to be riding up front, but he couldn't possibly allow Ryder to sit in the back seat all by himself.

"Everything." The short, simple answers of a child. Mycroft grinned, chuckling to himself.  
"Yes, of course. Your grandmother will be over for dinner tomorrow night so we can go out and see a film if you want, I can have one of the maids order pizza and then we'll watch cartoons until you decide to go to bed. How does that for an evening itinerary sound?" The father knew how to spoil a child. He only wished he got to do it more often, but, on the other hand, if he did it too often, it would change Ryder's attitude, make him greedy and snarky. He didn't want to make any more trouble for his brother, considering they were doing him the biggest favour the World had ever known.  
In exchange for raising his son, Mycroft provided the duo with large monthly sums of money; all expense paid trips every year, and to top it all off, got Scotland Yard to not pester them when Ryder was particularly fussy. Every two months or so, he would write the school board a 'monthly update' to keep them off the trail of the same sex parents. Schools in the area were highly suspicious of any family deemed outside of the 'norm'. That included divorced parents, single parents, same sex parents, young parents, old parents...anyone that could potentially 'stifle a child's growing mind'. He would definitely say that John and Sherlock had it fairly easy off thanks to the help Mycroft provided them.

Right now, however, he didn't need to concern himself with the troubles of his brother and his partner. He had Ryder for five whole days and God help them when they get their son back.

"Can we see the dinosaur film?" Ryder asked, looking out the window, he really was quiet, but you could tell he enjoyed receiving all the attention. Even at home he had to share attention with everyone else and like every child, including Sherlock, he loved being the centre of attention. Mycroft nodded, trying to engage Ryder in more conversation. They conversed until Mycroft pulled up to his manor. It was a modest manor, for what a manor is considered. It had 3 fully furnished floors, an ornate living room, seven bedrooms and five bathrooms all serviced by the multitude of maids he had kept to maintain the household and property. To Ryder, his uncle's house was a castle with endless opportunities for hide and seek.

"I'll get your suitcase, once we get your stuff into your room we can go see that dinosaur film you want." Mycroft shut off the car engine and opened the driver side door before opening the boot, taking out the small plaid case the child had brought with him. It was unusually light, he wondered what a kid could pack that left a case so light. Most children he knew stuffed every belonging they owned into their luggage and struggled to open it afterwards.  
"What did you pack, Ryder?" Mycroft asked, suspicious of his son. Dreading internally that he picked up Sherlock's habits of 'packing light'.

"The usual stuff...puzzles, books, drawing pad." Ryder shrugged, walking up the steps to the front door whilst Mycroft stopped in his tracks, looking at the case he carried.  
"What about clothing?" He asked, picking his car keys back out of his pocket, knowing he'd need to stop back off at Baker street.  
"No, I don't need clothes, I'm already wearing some." Ryder shrugged with all the nonchalantness of a child, continuing to climb the steps, ignoring the fact that his uncle had stopped following him. Instead of chastising the boy, Mycroft gave up, shaking his head. He could always send Anthea to get clothing for the kid. He would send word tomorrow though, tonight he had plans.  
Before entering the house, he fired off a quick text to John.

_Did you even check his case?  
Your son is going to go in public naked.  
Not my fault.  
-MH_


	2. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Ryder gets bored?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now is the time stuff really starts to happen. A big thank you to my dad and his boyfriend for letting me have full access to the boxes in storage to find the old home movie tapes, personal records, photo albums, old baby books, pretty much everything. Stuff like this actually happened at our house growing up, so enjoy! We were definitely not the 'best behaved' children.

**Grounded Chapter 2**

**  
**

"Ryder, it's two in the morning, are you certain you don't want to go to bed?" Mycroft yawned, in his own blue plaid pyjama’s, sitting on the couch with Ryder snuggled up between him and the largest pillow known to mankind. The boy with the obsidian coloured hair looked up at his uncle, grinning widely. He had so much junk food in his veins there was a high chance that he wasn't going to get to sleep for a couple days.  
"No, I'm not tired yet." The boy wasn't concerned with times or dates or any of that nonsense. Mycroft glanced at his watch, grimacing. He was more than happy to let Ryder stay here by himself so he could get some shut eye, but he just couldn't stand to leave the maid alone with him, not after what happened at dinner.

* * *

-Earlier that evening.-

"Kayla can you call and ask her to collect some of Ryder's clothes for pick up? It seems he, ah...forgot to pack them." Mycroft asked one of his maids, she nodded in reply, taking out a notepad and scrawling the task on it.  
"Yes sir." She said, walking away from her boss. Mycroft had been waiting to see how long it took until something went wrong, he was surprised that it had happened so fast, actually, no he wasn't, the child lived with Sherlock after all, and he had heard from John how horrible of a packer HE was. For their vacation, John had mentioned how the detective tried to get away with packing merely an extra coat in case it got cold. Chuckling, he went upstairs to join Ryder in his designated bedroom, God knows the boy was already unpacked and put away at this point.

"Ryder are you packed up? We have to get going soon." Mycroft entered the room without knocking, which might have been his first mistake.  
He was only left unattended for three minutes at the most, and already the bed was stripped of its covers; the pillows strewn around the floor, and the suitcase emptied of all it's contents, which were, like everything else, thrown into chaos around the small room. Mycroft stood there in shock, how could he be so destructive?  
"Please tell me there's a method to your madness." The pseudo-uncle asked, wincing internally. Ryder looked up from a pile of colourful children books and a fort of blankets and plastic toys.

"I'm organizing my town." He spoke with all the innocence of a young child. The young mini-detective looked at his uncle curiously, he couldn't find anything wrong with what he was doing, but then again, no child ever did see the problem with unleashing their imagination in a whiplash of mess and disorganization.  
"How about...if you organize your town on paper first?" Mycroft's temper didn't rise, he was more stunned at how fast the torrent of mayhem was swept across the room the size of a large bathroom.

"Oh Lord..." Mycroft turned towards the door to see Kayla, his maid, standing there with a bucket of neatly folded linen in her arms.  
"Don't look so surprised, Kayla. This boy is a Holmes, with more Sherlock in him then myself." He shook his head lacking hair and smiled.  
"If we can clean this up really fast, we can still go see the dinosaur film." The uncle outstretched his arms, picking up a large ball of expensive duvet's and quilts. Dumping them in a heap onto the bed, he casually tossed the remaining mess into the open suitcase and grabbed hold of Ryder's small hand. As they walked out the door, the government worker handed the maid an extra ten pound note.  
"It doesn't have to be spotless, just tidy." He said on his way out.

As they walked down the elegant staircase, Mycroft sent out to text a new message to his brother.

_Does he get his cleaning habits from you?  
He destroyed a room in less then three minutes.  
You're record is in danger of being broken, little brother.  
-MH_

* * *

-Current Time-

The rest of the evening had gone off without any more hitches. They went into the film, and Ryder was so enthralled with the giant dinosaurs on the screen, he had forgotten how to make sounds other then suppressed screams of excitement. The film was not so captivating to Mycroft, who sat there criticizing every action the amateur actors were making. It wasn't too long though, and Ryder enjoyed it, and he loved seeing his son taking an interest in harmless things like dinosaurs. It was harmless because it wasn't as if he could create a personal dinosaur-not at the age of six, anyway.

Right now he slightly regretting shoving the child full of chocolate and other such sweets, as it seemed highly unlikely he would get any sleep tonight, and tomorrow was a fairly big day, meeting up with his Mother for a dinner out at a high end restaurant, and he really wanted to be conscious for that meal. As it stood, that wasn't going to happen in the near future. Just as he thought that though, he heard a small nasal sound escape the primary school boy. The middle aged man looked down in surprise at the kid curled up into a loose ball at his side. He looked like a kitten nestled beside its mother. The awkward position, however, made it impossible for Mycroft to leave the couch without waking the sleeping child. Rolling his eyes in defeat, he flipped open his cellphone, firing off yet another text to his influential brother.

_AND your sleeping habits?  
Dear brother, pray tell, what else have you taught him?  
At least he doesn't snore.  
-MH_

* * *

-190 miles away-

"Have you gotten any word from Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, hovering over his boyfriend's shoulder. They sat in their king sized bed, their torso's exposed, propped up on a multitude of pillows. it was nearly three in the morning, but they had both been up all night wandering around the small town, around the park over the train tracks and up all the little hills that made up the little community. When they got back to their hotel, it was past midnight, and John insisted on going to bed, but Sherlock had other ideas. It was their first vacation without having to worry about a child, and they were going to enjoy it.  
Sure, Mycroft had taken Ryder for the night before due to him being family. But so had , and Molly, and so had Lestrade. But those were all specifically because of cases or Ryder's protection. Otherwise he was always in their capable hands.

Sated in their post-coital bliss, they had turned on the telly at the foot of the bed. It only seemed like a logical thing to do on account of not having to worry about certain noise restrictions, considering the small amount of people that were in the hotel, most of them, as Sherlock had checked; were located on the East side of the building. They occupied the West, leaving only a few occupants. Most were engaging in similar activities, or were tourists out on a bender for the night.  
John reached over to check the phone. They had ignored it all day saying that if it was urgent, Mycroft would call, and he never did. John was under specific instructions to ignore any and all texts; however it seemed that curiosity got the better of the detective, as it often had before.

"Yeah, three texts. Oh...oh God. Sherlock..." John put his hand over his mouth, giggling lightly before handing Sherlock the mobile phone.  
"I see..." Sherlock glanced over the words, rolling his eyes. "Dramatic as always. Mycroft never changes." He sounded slightly insulted, although John seemed to think it was amusing beyond belief.  
"He definitely takes after you." John smiled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder. At the same time he took the mobile phone out of the detectives hand, he didn't want the electronic stimulus taking over after being away for only a short time.  
"Well I'm glad you find our son's antics so amusing." Sherlock leaned back to slip his arm around John's body, pulling him closer so he was nearly on top of the detective.

"I'm just glad we don't have to worry about him catching us or slipping in on us in the middle of the night." John pressed forward to place his lips over top of Sherlock's, lingering to taste the unique flavour that was partly smoky, partly minty, partly of himself and one hundred percent Sherlock. No more words were exchanged the rest of the night, as they cluing to each other; making the least possible noise, and when it got too much to bear, they buried their faces in the pillows.  
Spent, if only briefly, they dozed. Limbs intertwined as if they were afraid to drown in the blankets. Utterly content with not having to be concerned about getting up early enough to take Ryder to school in the morning.

* * *

Mycroft woke up on an empty couch. Candy wrappers and half-eaten jelly babies littering the ornate carpet around him. Feeling the lack of pressure on his side, the middle aged man looked around the room in a daze. He glanced at his watch, it was only half nine in the morning, after the late night they had, he hadn't expected Ryder to be awake until midday. This left him eight and a half hours until they had to be at the restaurant to meet up with his mother. She only got to see Ryder once or twice a year, and she was not informed of the younger sibling gaining guardianship of her only grandchild. Luckily they only had to see her for a couple hours, then he had to think of some other plan to keep his son entertained. He wouldn't survive on this habit of staying up all night only getting a minimum amount of sleep.

Figuring Ryder was playing in his room, or being looked after by the maids, Mycroft stretched out on the luxurious couch, trying to get as much sleep as possible before he had to be up and ready.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft awoke with a start, unaware of what time it was, really unaware of his surroundings. He wasn't so young any more that he could nap for a only a few hours on a stiff piece of furniture without any consequences. He stretched his back out as best as he could without hurting himself further, feeling the tense stiffness in his back.  
"Yes? What is it?" He asked, his voice groggy and lower than normal, he wanted to know what time it was, he still had to get ready for dinner.

"We put Ryder to bed earlier this morning, and we came in to feed him some breakfast but he was gone. We found a note." Kayla cracked a nervous smile, fearing what her boss would say when he found out his son playing nephew wasn't where he was supposed to be. As expected, Mycroft's face dropped the same length his stomach did when the words finally sunk in.

"Note? What note? What does it say?" Mycroft jumped up in a panic, heart pounding and mind racing to a blur. Kayla backed up a bit, slightly frightened by her boss' reaction. Shakily, she pulled the piece of crumpled paper out of her pocket, unfolding it and passing it to the government worker.

_'Uncle Mycroft,  
You are asleep so I will not wake you up.  
I will be back before we see Gramma.  
See you soon Uncle.  
From:  
Ryder Holmes.'_

"Where did he go?" Mycroft was enraged, frantically wondering where his nephew could possibly have gone off to. He raced into the foyer to the standing phone to call those higher up to start a low key patrol of the surrounding area, trying to keep everything under the radar from his brother.  
And only five hours before they had to meet Mummy Holmes.

* * *

-190 miles Away-

Sherlock and John had been enjoying every guilty pleasure they had not been able to indulge in in six years since the arrival of Ryder into their lives. They napped until the sun was high in the sky; they made love often and passionately without any noise boundaries; and they took walks in the middle of the night without worrying about leaving a child home alone or finding a babysitter.

That's why they groaned in unison when the phone rang.

"I wonder what you taught him this time?" John asked, reaching over his boyfriend to grab the violently vibrating phone on the side table. It was nearly one o'clock in the afternoon on their first full day of vacation, Ryder was trying to keep up to his dad's standards apparently.  
"Hello?" John answered the phone in his tired voice. He really was tired; the two of them really only napped on and off after engaging in such rough sex that would make any hormone driven university student proud.

"Yes I am...yes? Oh dear God." Bolting upright in the bed, John's eyes widened as he jumped up to gather his clothing that was thrown around the room.  
"Where is he? Yes? Does it have to be us? Well, he was being watched for-... All right, we're on our way. Yes, thank you." John gave an exasperated sigh as he slapped the lid of the phone shut and started to put on his jeans. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to sit up, rather leaning back to try to engulf himself in the fluffy pillows that lined the bed, trying in vain to disappear from John's line of sight.

"Sherlock, we have to go, get packed." John snapped, wincing slightly at how he sounded, he wasn't supposed to sound mean to his boyfriend who really, didn't do anything wrong other than be the influential co-parent.  
"What, why?" He asked, turning over in the bed so his face was nicely nestled in the white linen marshmallows.  
"Your son decided to take a vacation of his own." John threw his suitcase onto his bed. He had only opened it once since they got there, and that was to grab a couple personal items for their carnal rounds of sex. Sherlock felt the large dip in the bed due to the heavy weight of the suitcase. Slightly irritated by it, he shifted until he was physically out of the bed and putting on his clothing.

"How did they catch him?" Sherlock asked, not even thinking about whom 'they' were, or even where his son was, just that he was going to be in very big trouble when they finally got an explanation.  
"He was seen wandering around outside of Mycroft's house heading towards the train station. When the cops asked him where he was supposed to be, he said the train station. They finally figured out how to get in touch with us by asking him our phone number. Christ, Sherlock, where the fuck is your brother, and why didn't they contact him?" John was visibly agitated. He couldn't catch a break from this kid, from Sherlock's stupid gene's. Sherlock, who at first was more eager than any mother he had ever seen; was the cause of most of their problems. He taught Ryder the most irritating habits, trying to keep him above the average intellect, and that was the cause of most of their problems.

"You can't say you're surprised." Sherlock said, already packed and waiting for John by the door. John rolled his eyes, scoffing in his direction.  
"No, I'm not. I just wish he had waited a day or so before pulling this stunt." John massaged his temples before heading out the door ahead of Sherlock. Before shutting the door to their hardly used hotel room, he pulled out the emergency phone and typed out a small quick message to his brother.

_You're going to have to make up for that.  
John won't let me forget this.  
You're a horrible brother.  
Warmest regards,  
-SH_

* * *

"Ryder James Holmes, just what in the bloody blue blazes were you thinking?" John yelled over the phone at his son. They were in Llangollen train station talking on the phone to the security of the train station in Northern London. They had been trying to get a hold of Mycroft, but the security claimed that only the legal guardians of the child were able to pick Ryder up. After a lengthy explanation to the hotel service though, they had been able to put their room on hold until the allotted time was up, then they would be welcome to return. However, as it stood, that looked unlikely as now they had to travel back to London before nightfall. The next train was in twenty minutes, and it only took just over an hour and a half to get there, so that was more than enough time to get there.

"All right, just...sit there, we have to catch the train, we'll be there in four hours, here, put the nice policeman on the phone. Yes? Hello? Ta, hi. Yes, this is John Watson. Yes...no, I understand, my uhh, my brother in law was supposed to be watching him." John looked helplessly at Sherlock, noticing the detective's eyebrow raise distinctively at the phrase 'brother in law'.  
"It'll be about four hours, are you certain it has to be-yes, no, I understand. All right, yes, that sounds good, we'll pay once we get there. Thank you. Yes, all right, bye." John hung up the phone, his fingers permanently pressed to his temples. He was beyond stressed at that moment. Sherlock, noticing every little tell-tale sign, took one of John's hands and stroked his thumb is a light soothing pattern across John's palm.

"What's going on? Why can't Mycroft pick him up?" Sherlock asked, standing closer to his boyfriend in an attempt to comfort him without physical touch.  
"Apparently Ryder didn't even mention him, and legally they can't ask him to pick him up because he's not a registered guardian." John leaned forward until his forehead rested upon Sherlock's flat chest, feeling the slight rise and fall of his breathing. It was a small comfort, very small, but it helped.

"I think the phone's vibrating, check your pocket." Sherlock whispered into his ear, slightly nuzzling the side of John's face. John shifted and reached into his pocket, pulling out the phone. Inside was one missed text message. Flipping the phone up, he looked and smiled up at Sherlock.

_Greetings dear brother and John,  
Hope you are having fun on your trip.  
I lost your son.  
Don't get mad.  
See you both soon.  
-MH_

"Your brother's a genius. How about we leave him hanging for awhile?" John smirked, feeling slightly devilish.  
"You know this means we have to spend Christmas dinner with my Mother." Sherlock watched John's face fall as he said this, noticing all the telltale signs of torture and suffering.  
"Yes, we can definitely leave him hanging."

* * *

"Are you Mr. Holmes?" The guard was clad in a crimson red outfit trimmed with gold, shiny silver clasps kept the jacket from separating from the shirt of the same shade of red. John cocked an eyebrow, this looked more like a royal guard rather than a simple train station attendant.  
"No, I'm Dr. Watson, Ryder's other father." John extended his hand to shake the guards, which was apparently frowned upon, as the action was not reciprocated.  
"Are you his legal guardian?" The guard asked, his face deadpan and stoic, he took his job description to the T, which could have been said after the affair with Mycroft. What amused John about that situation was that Mycroft, being the biological father of Ryder, could not pick up his own son. Guardianship or not, Mycroft had the power to get Sherlock and John into the most secure locations in the world, yet he could not pick up his own son from a train station detainment centre.

"Yes, I am. I have his birth certificate and school registration with me if you need-"  
"No, that's all right Sir, we have your name down on the sheet. Let me go get your son."  
John stifled a laugh, he couldn't believe it, he didn't even need to show proof. What had Mycroft said that made them so suspicious of him? Sherlock had finally emerged from gathering their luggage off the conveyor belt. It was getting late, and being trapped in the enclosed compartment for so long made Sherlock highly active and twitchy. John was rather surprised the detective was still here, he figured once he was free, he'd run until his legs gave out from under him. Although the Good Doctor supposed the threat of what the detective would receive as punishment for abandoning them was enough to hold him here until he was properly dismissed.

It took only seconds until Ryder ran around the corner; his curls bouncing wildly in all directions as he leapt into John's arms.  
"DADDY!" He shrieked, giggling and clinging onto his father's neck for support. Any anger or irritation he felt was dissolved as he held his son close to his body. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he missed the child, even if it was only for one night. Sherlock, however, was not in such high spirits as he came around the corner and locked eyes with his son, scowling in a manner that shouted 'utter disappointment'. Ryder must have felt it, because he immediately unhinged himself from John's neck, sliding down until his small feet hit the floor.

John knelt onto the ground so he was eye level with his son, keeping his eyes fixed onto the deep blue abyssal eyes of the child. His eyes were an exact replica of Sherlock's, the child himself was an exact replica of Sherlock, only slightly less destructive. It often made John question Ryder's true parentage, although without a doubt a Holmes, he wondered if it were just some elaborate cover-up that John was out of the loop of. Every time that question entered his head; it was just as quickly scoffed off without a second thought. It wasn't uncommon for children to resemble their uncles or aunts instead of their parents, they shared most of the same DNA, and since Ryder was a male, it only made sense that he looked like Sherlock rather than anyone on Rita's side of the family.

"Ryder, what did you think you were doing?" John asked softly, his face close to his son's to avoid sounding confrontational. Ryder looked away, as his feet suddenly became very interesting to him.  
"I...well, I didn't want to wake Uncle Mycroft, but...I wanted to see you and daddy again." Ryder continued to look at his feet, shuffling slightly. Sherlock noticed this and finally decided to get involved.  
"You've stayed the night at your Uncle's before. Did he make rules? Were you trapped there?" Sherlock questioned, his voice audibly harsher than John's. John exhaled loudly, leaning over to hiss in his partner's ear.

"We're NOT playing good parent bad parent here, Sherlock!" He spat, hoping to remain quiet enough so Ryder didn't hear him, but of course he did anyway. He was a Holmes, they heard everything.

"No, I was just bored. He was asleep on the couch and so I went to find you to play with me." Ryder's voice was soft, John was right in front of him and could barely hear what he said. He brought his palm up and rested his face in the crook of it; that sounded more like Sherlock than anything the boy had done in his six years of life. Sherlock started to beam.  
"That's my son. How did you find the train station?" Sherlock stepped forward, taking Ryder into his arms, clutching him close to his chest. He felt the spark of pride that Ryder wasn't like other children, who would pester and pester you until you woke up to play. No, he went out to get what he wanted, rules be damned. He really was a miniature version of the consulting detective. It made his heart swell with an intangible amount of pride.

"I walked around until a police man came up to me and asked me where I was going and I said, 'to see my daddies at the train station', so he gave me a ride but they found out you weren't there so I told them about Uncle Mycroft but they said he couldn't come get me but Uncle Mycroft gave them your number. They made me wait a lot, I was really bored." Ryder shrugged against Sherlock, which was really uncomfortable. Sherlock's coat was making his skin itchy and he wanted to be put down, but daddy never hugged him like this, so the child accepted the embrace, loving the attention he was getting, and appreciating that he wasn't getting in trouble.

"I'm proud of you that you figured that out all by yourself-"  
"But that was very dangerous, and you should know that you should have stayed with your Uncle. He was in paroxysm's of worried fits." John interrupted, he knew Sherlock would shower Ryder in horrible ideas of law breaking and bad habits. Sherlock interjected by giving John an expression that clearly read, _'We're NOT playing good parent bad parent?'_ John shook his head, knowing he had been defeated. As much as he tried to be the 'good' parent, or ultimately the 'mother' figure; he just couldn't compete with Sherlock. He knew what it felt like to get praise from the detective. It was addicting, like a drug, only without the awful bodily side effects.

"You do know that we still have to go to dinner with your mother." John smirked, knowing that would stop any and all approval Sherlock bestowed onto Ryder. Dinner with Mummy Holmes was dancing with Death, only with a more uncertain outcome.

* * *

They sat in the restaurant, Sherlock and John on one side, Mycroft and Ryder on the other, and at the head of the table with Sherlock and Mycroft kitty corner; sat the one and only Mummy Holmes.

She was tall, like both Holmes children, her hair artificially lightened to the point of being over processed. You could never tell what colour her roots were though, for a small mink fur beret sat atop her slender pointed head. Her nose had been shrunk with the magic of prosthetic surgery, as were her ears. John could tell those scars anyway, no matter how much of that expensive cover up cream she plastered on.

"So Sherlock, enlighten me. What are you doing for a living? Still pretending to be one of the Hardy Boys or have you moved onto playing with the big dogs yet?" Her lips curled upwards into a sardonic sneer. John saw Sherlock wince, as the comment stung close to home. He had been with Sherlock for nearly a decade and even he had not yet managed to make Sherlock look so pitiful, so hurt. Sure, he had made him feel bad, even a little bruised; but never like this. No, there were ghosts from Sherlock's past involving his mother that not even John was sure of.

"I think I make a decent living doing what I do, Mother." Sherlock muttered, slouching into chair even farther. John's hand was discretely placed in his lap, allowing him to gently stroke the side of Sherlock's thigh without being noticed by anyone else at the table; not even Mycroft with his ability to see everything. Mummy Holmes shrugged, her bony shoulders draped underneath a translucent white shawl. She looked like a skeleton that was covered with paper thin skin, her collar bones jutted out at a sickening angle, making her look not only malnourished but like a dead woman walking. Her appetite did not reflect her body shape, however, as she packed away her meal with impressive speed whilst still managing to look graceful doing it.

"At least one of my boys has a secure future. I'm only sorry Ruby passed away before she could see what a handsome child she created." Mummy made cooing noises in Ryder's direction. Mycroft looked uncomfortable, for once he had kept tactful and polite towards Sherlock, making no crude gestures or snide remarks about his career nor personal life. It was in exchange of Sherlock not telling their mother about who was really raising her grandchild.

"It was Rita, dear Mother. Don't be so hard on Sherlock, he has a nice little flat in central London; not everyone would be able to afford a place in that area." Mycroft even went to far as to compliment him, Sherlock duly noted, curtly nodding a 'thank you', which his brother reciprocated, smiling slightly. He patted Ryder's shoulder affectionately, trying to get off the topic of Sherlock and his job, or rather, lack of one.

"Oh Please, we all know Doctor Watson brings in most of the money. Have you been able to hang onto this one, Sherlock? God knows why though. You couldn't find a nice woman to settle down with? Someone to bring me some grandchildren?" Her comments hit closer to home, and John felt his grip tightening on Sherlock's leg, trying to keep himself from lashing out at her. He bit his bottom lip with his teeth to prevent any words he would regret saying from slipping out, he couldn't, no, WOULDN'T make a scene here.

"Don't bring him into this, he hasn't said anything to you." Sherlock said, staying remarkably calm through clenched teeth, his muscles becoming tense under John's touch. Sherlock could handle any insults about himself, but he got very protective about John. Mycroft caught this immediately and stuttered slightly before attempting again to change the subject.  
"I hear you recently travelled to North America, Mother. How was that?" He older brother asked with all respect and dignity he normally portrayed. On a normal day, John would roll his eyes at the obvious sugar-coated words used to get their Mother on his side, but tonight he appreciated it before Sherlock blew a fuse and hurt someone. Seemingly forgetting her attacks on Sherlock and John, Mummy Holmes turned to her favourite son as they engaged in deep conversation over Canadian demographics.

"How much longer?" Sherlock leaned over to John, whispered ever so quietly into his ear. John checked his watch, than looked over at Mycroft and Ryder; the latter was sitting still in his chair, eyeing his food with a tinge of disgust, trying to hide it under a mask of politeness. He hadn't squirmed in his chair once, although the threat of slipping up and ruining dinner for Mycroft only to be chastised by Sherlock was a punishment that kept him seated there, unmoving.

"Until your brother decides to leave, otherwise we don't get our son back." John huffed, hurt and irritated at the sharp comments that still stung in the back of his head. He couldn't imagine Sherlock with anyone else, much less a woman. The thought of his lover being in the throws of passion with someone else etched into the back of his mind, and it stung deeply. Knowing that Sherlock gave up any prospect of a "family" when they first got together; regardless of their situation now, Sherlock was willing to give it all up to be with John, and if that sacrifice wasn't worth commending, than he had nothing left keeping him there. Now Sherlock HAS a family; a loving partner and a son. If that wasn't good enough for Mummy Holmes than John didn't know what else he could do.

"We could always pawn him back off to Mycroft, since he's the one who got us into this mess in the first place. Don't let her get to you John, she's not me, and I love you. That should be all that matters to you." Sherlock whispered back, his lips grazing John's ear lobe, sending sparks of electric currents down the doctor's spine.  
"Wait until we get back home, you can do anything you want with me." John miraculously managed to keep his voice low and level, able to hide their conversation from the other three members of their party. Sherlock chuckled, patting John's shoulder before sitting back up in the chair, trying to listen in on the active conversation, but finding himself really unconcerned on the matter, all he thought about was John and the wonderful things he was going to do, or at least attempt to do. He forgot they had to bring Ryder home.

* * *

"I do apologise for my mother's behaviour, John." Sherlock said as they left the restaurant ahead of Mycroft. His was still talking to their mother at the till, Sherlock's excuse was to get some air., dragging John out with him. John waved his hand dismissively.  
"Don't. Sherlock, she attacked you viciously and I won't stand for it. Don't even worry about me, she's not MY mother, I can handle it." John clasped his hand onto Sherlock's in a soothing motion, locking onto his eyes to comfort. Sherlock was tempted to lean closer to the doctor, but worried that Mycroft and Ryder were still inside prevented him from making any advancements.

"I...am very sorry you two had to sit through that, might there be a way to make it up to you?" Mycroft said with an air of complete dignity and tact as he pushed open the front doors, Ryder's hand grasped to his.  
"We tried that, remember? You turned our son loose on the city." John said, although not holding any hostile feelings towards Mycroft; actually, he hadn't been truly resentful of the older Holmes brother for ages, they got along splendidly on normal circumstances. Sherlock, however, had some resentment about how the evening had gone.

"Yes, well...I did not expect that with four maids and various other staff that a child could escape the house without being detected. Even the security alarm didn't go off, and either that means that Sherlock taught him the proper skills for housebreaking; or he has the ability to walk through walls, and I severely doubt the latter. Is there still a way for you two to get back to the hotel tomorrow? There's still three days left in the reservation." Mycroft sniffed, his voice lowering slightly just in case Mother opened the doors and caught wind of what they were talking about, and any crucial details.

"I'm afraid we're home now, Mycroft, but thank you for trying. Ryder isn't usually so...umm...what's the word, well, he doesn't normally act like this when he's with you. Usually he throws a tantrum when we come to take him home." John nodded his head curtly, a little disappointed that he and Sherlock had to come home, but than again, the vacation was just a bonus anyway, and, all in all, they did have at least one night alone.

"Mother wishes to stay the night in my manor, John. We have a bit of an issue." Mycroft hesitated before telling him.  
"Why didn't you start with that?" Sherlock asked, finally joining in the conversation. Mycroft looked at him as if only just realising he was there.  
"Dear Brother...return to your hotel and I can deal with Ryder until Mother is gone. It's only three days, I'm sure I can deal with him."  
"That's what you said the last time." Sherlock rolled his eyes, feeling slightly grumpy. John didn't particularly wish to go back to the hotel; he would have to deal with Sherlock growing discontent and bored for three days; he feared for the state of the hotel. He wanted to go home, make himself a cup of tea and sleep, and he decided to tell Sherlock that.

"Look, Mycroft, we really appreciate what you're doing and what you've offered to do, but either way we have to spend the night here anyway, no trains depart until tomorrow morning. We could just stay home and take Ryder on vacation with us next time we can catch a break. It's no big deal, but we'll be at home if you need us." John said, holding Sherlock back gently with his hand on his arm before kneeling to face his son, whispering so low, Mycroft just above him had trouble hearing.

"Now Ryder, please please please for the love of God, behave this time. Don't go wandering out of the house, if you're THAT bored, call us with the phone, but do not leave the house." John said before giving Ryder a kiss on the forehead, standing up to face Mycroft.  
"When will we get him back?" He asked the older brother.  
"Christmas Eve, and I myself will make an appearance on Christmas morning. Now, I must go see what is taking Mummy so long. See you boys Christmas Eve."

With that, Mycroft went back into the restaurant with Ryder to meet up with Mummy, leaving Sherlock and John outside in the crisp; yet not cold air of London's December.


	3. Christmas Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas morning, and Ryder, like all children, are restless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my...very interesting friends for giving me inspiration on Ryder's Christmas presents, unfortunately, I decided to go with a nod to Cabin Pressure, since I don't think Sherlock would invest in "the heart of a baby goat", a miniature trampoline, or a medieval sword.

"IT'S CHRISTMAS!" The shrieks and cackles of the child echoed throughout the house, bouncing off the walls and slipping under the door into the room where John and Sherlock lay, huddled together not for warmth, but comfort for the other. John stirred restlessly, his being was awake, but his mind was not in the comprehension stage yet. He groaned loudly, raising his arms above his head, not wanting to put too much strain on his left shoulder, but he stretched anyway, feeling the tautness of his muscles, until he felt the welcome weak warmth that radiated from the used limbs. Sherlock hadn't peeped from his slumber, John was doubtful that he was still asleep, since he was completely silent, not even making enough noise to tell if he was breathing or not. That was a general indicator that Sherlock was indeed awake and conscious, keeping track of how much noise he made to not let John know he was up.

"Sherlock, your son's awake." John slumped back down onto the mattress, leaning over to give Sherlock a quick kiss on his lips. Dry and without passion, but a tender kiss to let Sherlock know that John was still there. The detective smiled, fully awake but his eyes were still closed, he didn't want John to win this easily. John turned over onto his side again, lifting his fingers to trace the sharp outline of his boyfriend's narrow face, his calloused fingers grazing along the short stubble that grew on his chin. It was relaxing, peaceful, and reminded them of the short night they had spent alone in the secluded hotel in Northern Wales. That is, until they heard the loud cries of their son piercing the silence, ringing in their ear drums.  
"DAAAAAAD! CAN I OPEN MY PRESENTS?" Ryder yelled, the volume of his voice increased with every syllable, reminding John of the time him and Sherlock were at a pet store and Ryder had gotten his hands on a shock collar. Although a cruel decide used purely for the torment and harm to the canine that they are supposed to 'help', Sherlock had made a comment about how much quieter their flat would be if they had put one on their son. A tempting idea at the time, John told the detective, quite firmly, no.  
"The sun hasn't even risen yet, I don't take responsibility until the sun is up." Sherlock yawned, bunching up the blankets closer to his chest, ridding John of the warmth of the cotton covers. The consulting detective was a father in a five year old child's body and personality, it was John's most and least favourite part about him.  
"And during winter, that doesn't leave any time for you to be a responsible parent. Good job, Sherlock, you win the 'Father of the Year' award. Now hurry up, put on your house coat before Ryder gets anxious and sets the tree on fire from impatience."  
  
"Okay, Ryder, we're here, you can open your presents." John sat down in his chair, rubbing his eyes from lack of sleep. It had been a late night from Ryder crawling into their room every half hour asking if Santa was coming yet, even after John repeatedly informing him that Santa never shows up until everyone is fully asleep. That did nothing to persuade the child to stop bothering his parents.  
Sherlock joined John, sitting beside him on the floor, his legs crossed, facing the lit up fake tree that stood in the corner. They were stuck with the fake tree since Mrs. Hudson had told them off the bat, that real trees, not only very difficult to find in London, but were an extreme fire hazard that, in such close range to both the detective and his son, was a ready made meal of disaster waiting to happen.  
Under the tree lay six presents. Two for Ryder; one from each father, two for John and two for Sherlock, this year, Ryder had gone out with Mycroft to pick out his own presents for his dads, and, as per tradition, Sherlock and John had exchanged gifts for the season too.  
"If I get to, you have to open my gifts for you too!" Ryder nodded, passing his dads their gifts. They were in bags after Ryder had struggled to wrap them and absolutely refused any assistance from his uncle and everybody else. If he was unable to do it, nobody was and he would find a more simple solution. John smiled, allowing his son to shove the small bag into his hand, his face determined and stern but his eyes full of mirth and cheery attitude. Sherlock peered over the arm of the couch, curious now as to what Ryder bought him. He knew what his gift was, but the kid had been clever in keeping John's present a secret.  
  
"Which one are you going to open, Ryder?" John asked, as the curly haired boy scanned the two boxes in front of him. One was a fairly regular sized square box, stout and had perfect symmetrical corners, and the other was much smaller, a thick rectangular shape. He chose the square box first, undoing the corners before ripping off the entire face of the wrapping paper. John, noticing his vigour and hurry, gave Sherlock a look that yelled 'I told you so'. As he had, Sherlock had made a bit of a fuss when John had brought him a cheap roll of wrapping paper from Tesco rather than one of the fancier rolls he had circled in a seasonal catalogue from Harrods. John's argument had been "It's just wrapping paper, he won't even notice it, he'll rip it off the box and it'll never be spoken of". He, as usual, was right about this sort of thing. The detective turned his head, pretending not the notice the narky grin, and be focused on his son as his eyes widened, holding the package tightly in his hands.  
"A MODEL AEROPLANE?" He yelled excitedly, practically trembling with exuberant joy. He leapt up, tackling his curly haired father, knocking him backwards, his back hitting the carpet flooring with a muffled 'thump'. The shrieks and cries of the child was sure to wake anyone who was still asleep in the building, including Mrs. Hudson, who would take the opportunity to burst into their flat with a tray of Christmas cookies and hot cocoa. John calculated this in his head whilst Ryder had been busy showering Sherlock with thanks, even though it had been John who picked out the model aeroplane kit, noting how fascinated with them the boy had been, claiming he wanted to BE an aeroplane, or at the very least, an aeroplane captain.  
  
"Thank your other dad for that too, he picked it out." Sherlock chuckled, hugging Ryder quickly before sitting up and walking over to John, hugging him too, all though not as enthusiastic, was still radiating with excitement. He loved the workings of aeroplanes, loved their form and their inner secrets, and John knew that.  
  
"Thank you daddy and papa...now open your gifts!" He jumped up, clapping his hands, only hitting the box, since he seemed to refuse to put it down. John smiled, dropping his hand off the arm of the chair, Sherlock noticed, entwining their fingers together, using their one free hand to open the bags Ryder had given them. He looked at them, watching and observing, radiating a command over them. John finally got the tissue paper off his, lifting the lid, and his jaw dropped when he discovered the contents. Sherlock had staved off of opening his, since he already knew what it was, but he hadn't seen John's yet.  
  
Letting go of John's hand, Sherlock propped himself up, peering into the box too, at the same time he felt embarrassed and yet amused.  
"Umm...Ryder, who picked this out?" Sherlock asked, John fought off the urge to immediately call Mycroft and demand an explanation, but he didn't, for Sherlock's sake, who found this incredibly entertaining. Ryder rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands behind his back. He didn't truly understand the present himself, since he bought mostly what his uncle had told him.  
  
"Uncle Mycroft picked it out, he said you two needed it." Oh, the innocence of a child. John shook his head, taking yet another look at the box before covering the lid and putting onto the side table beside his chair, trying to focus attention on the child, trying to get him to open another present before he remembered that Sherlock hadn't opened his yet, all though, given what John had in his bag, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what mysterious item lay in his partner's.  
Sherlock pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, firing off his brother a Christmas morning text.  
Where did you take my son to buy sexy lingerie?  
Actually, how did you even convince him that was a good idea?  
John will never wear those.  
At least I'M getting laid.  
-SH  
  
Ryder had already opened his second gift-a pocket book edition of studies in physics and how it related to aeroplanes, a book he admittedly, couldn't understand too well, but he liked having the reference guide, and the pictures were labelled, well detained, and appeared on nearly every page. That was a gift from Sherlock, which he deemed to be of far more educational value than a wooden model of a plane. Ryder didn't see the value that way, he saw tools, he saw thoughtful presents, and he appreciated them.  
  
Sherlock had been caught not opening his present, John feared for it, Sherlock had been calm, since he knew what to expect, and it was far less disturbing than the lacy undergarments that were packed into John's box. He pretended to be surprised when he pulled out the tie, in true father-son fashion. Feigning thanks, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Ryder, hugging him tightly, and kissing his cheeks. When he was let go, the boy turned to his parents, one who was sitting on a chair so he was higher than the rest of them, and the other who was resting his sharp elbows into his thighs, cross legged on the floor.  
"Can I go read my book now?" Ryder asked, grabbed up all the wrapping paper he could find, heading over to the small waste paper bin by the work desk, dumping the trash into it before turning around to hear if he got permission to leave the family gathering.  
  
"Yes, of course. Don't make a mess though. Have fun, Ryder." Sherlock waved him off. Before Ryder came into their lives, Christmas was never a big event for John or Sherlock. They got up like they did every other day, they made tea, they sat in their chairs, and John gave Sherlock his annual present. It wasn't until six years ago that John actually received one back, as Sherlock had said that Christmas had too much media popularity, and what they were actually celebrating was the Winter Solstice, when it was actually in July that the birth of Christ had occurred, and if John wanted to exchange presents, they should do it in the summer.  
They were granted custody of Ryder the first week of December, six years ago. He was eight months old at the time, and unable to realise the difference of actually living with John and Sherlock, since the duo had been on permanent baby sitting duty since his mother had died when Ryder was four months old. That was the first year Sherlock gave John a gift, a small coffee mug with the words "World's Greatest Mother" on it. At the time it was a personal joke that the two shared, but even now as John sipped from that mug daily, he smiled looking at it, thinking of how things changed in their lives, thanks to the young child that they had responsibility over. They had been through tantrums and teething, and first words, potty training, first steps, feeding, night terrors, the flu, start of school, and everything every parent had been through. Sherlock had been very supportive in these steps, but it really was John who played mother figure, he was the one who attended the parent-teacher meetings, all though in Sherlock's defence, the detective really wasn't the right person to be doing that. That was another memory that made John feel nostalgic. When he had gotten a call at work to come immediately to the school, knowing that he had asked Sherlock to go, he was surprised when he got there, to see both his son and his boyfriend sitting in the corner of the room, backs facing the open space, both hunched over in the same position facing the wall, as the teacher had sent them both into 'time out', claiming that Sherlock was as argumentative and unruly as a child.  
  
While he was delving into his thoughts and reminiscing about events in their lives, Sherlock had gotten off the floor, heading towards the kitchen to boil the kettle for a cup of tea. John had closed his eyes, and all though he was just thinking, Sherlock didn't want to bother him, since he knew he had avoided dealing with the conflicts the night before, even though he was well aware John wouldn't even dream of bringing that up, not on Christmas morning. Christmas had always been a Holiday for the doctor, and though Sherlock himself never engaged in the trivial activities until as of late, he was always amused at John's enthusiasm and good cheer around these times. He knew that the surgery was far busier, this was prime season for them, but he always came home in a good mood.  
  
"Boys, are you up yet?" Mrs. Hudson entered to door, carrying a tray of biscuits and tarts and other such festive treats. John opened his eyes at the intrusion, their landlady was one of those people that entered before knocking, and on more then one occasion, had found herself with more than an eye full of suggestive positions and scenarios. That never dampened her attempts though.  
  
"Ta, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. This is, this is quite nice, yes." John stood up, taking the heavy tray out of her frail hands, setting it down on the desk, before offering her to join them with a cup of tea. She accepted gratefully, John noticed she was wearing her good jewellery that she had always saved for special events, meaning John had only seen her wear them once or twice. Once when she had gone on holiday to visit her sister in Florida, and on Ryder's first birthday. To her, Ryder was her grandson, and nothing they ever said would persuade her otherwise. Well, not that they knew that, they never discouraged her from thinking that way, as being a grandmother meant she was a built-in babysitter in tight times.  
"Is Ryder up yet?" She asked, crooning over the tree in the corner, examining all their ornaments. She had done that a number of times already, but she never tired of seeing the little decorations Ryder added, such as a plastic army figure wearing a cotton ball Santa hat, or the snowman with sunglasses and a beach umbrella. Little things like that were things she enjoyed, knowing full well that it was Ryder, her pseudo grandson, that demanded those be put on display.  
  
"Yeah, he's gone off now to build model aeroplanes, do you want me to call him for you?" John asked, ready to call Ryder down at a moment's notice if he had to. In the back of his mind, he remembered that he and Sherlock had not yet exchanged gifts. 'Oh well' He thought, 'not something I'm willing to do in front of Mrs. Hudson'.  
"Oh no, that's fine. I'm sure he'll be down soon enough anyway, he never stays in the same room for long." Mrs. Hudson chuckled, having babysat him enough times to know about his energy and attention level. John nodded in agreement, taking a cup of cocoa from the tray and sipping it slowly, it wasn't scorching hot and he knew it, Mrs. Hudson never made her drinks burning.  
  
"So, Mrs. Hudson, what can we do you for?" Sherlock asked, coming back into the room to hug his beloved landlady and most entrusted friend next to John. The elderly lady hugged him back, she always treated the boys like her own children, she loved them so dearly.  
"I just came by to wish you boys a Merry Christmas. I don't have anyone else to talk to during the holidays, and you two don't mind, do you?" She sat down in the chair opposite John, it was deemed Sherlock's chair, but he was busy tidying up the small amount of rubbish paper that had accumulated on his work desk, keeping himself distracted to prevent from going slightly crazy from being cooped up inside.  
"Sherlock, are you feeling all right?" She asked, noticing his restlessness. The detective turned to her, his face showing no signs of worry or concern, he looked happy, proud, but he had the expression of a dog in need of a walk.  
  
"He's fine, Mrs. Hudson, he's been home bound lately since there's been no cases that require him leaving the flat, and he got rest last night so he has all this pent up energy he can't spend until Boxing Day, since his brother is coming over later to spend time with Ryder." John said, yawning, and getting up to poke at the fire, his eyes grazing over the mantle piece littered in jolly cards and unlit candles, with little sprigs of ivy and holly. It was all a festive design decision made by their landlady. John appreciated the effort she put in to making their flat more cheerful, God knows Sherlock would ever fall for something like that.  
  
They basked in the silence for mere moments until they heard the tell tale sign of a door opening upstairs that Ryder emerged from the room, now bored with his book and his model, seeking new entertainment, or at least an audience to tell what he had learnt in that short time frame. None of them looked in the direction of the stairs until they heard the small gasp, and the excited squeal, and the rapid padding of feet on the carpet, and Mrs. Hudson was tackled in a giant bear hug from the boy, who adored his makeshift Grandmother more than anything. He loved her almost as much as he loved his uncle, or fathers.  
"Hello my boy, did you like your presents?" The older lady asked, pulling Ryder closer, his head resting on her shoulder. John felt his chest swell, he loved seeing how loved Ryder was in their lives, how supportive everyone was. Sherlock noticed, coming up to stand behind his partner in the chair, leaning forward so he was hung over the back of his, arms crossed over the top as his chest rested on top of them.  
  
"Yes Grandma Hudson, I got a model aeroplane! I can build it myself, but I haven't started yet." He said, loving the attention he got as a single child on Christmas.  
The scene was the epitome of peace, John in his chair, Sherlock hovered lovingly over him, Ryder snuggled with Mrs. Hudson, the tree was lit and fire was dancing, their shadows stretched over to the far wall. John thought absently that this photo was what everyone looked at on generic Christmas cards, of families, no bickering, no complaining, no arguments, no naughty words, just utter serenity. Even Sherlock had stopped bouncing around to enjoy it.  
Until they heard the knock at the door.  
  
"Merry Christmas, dear brother."  
  
Mycroft...


End file.
